


Sherlock Short Stories

by beanmal, benthejellybeanking (beanmal)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Fluff, Gen, John is clueless af, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Stalker Sherlock, conceited Sherlock, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:42:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanmal/pseuds/beanmal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanmal/pseuds/benthejellybeanking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anything and everything you want to request! Prompts from the web in general (:</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Best Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: They were enemies at school. They reencounter on a school reunion.

Why did I let myself be dragged inside there? Why had I let Greg put me on the guest list? When did I agree?! How long had it been? Twenty years? I didn't even know, but, still, I was standing in a room full of my ex-classmates. Some were surrounding me, asking how my life had been after being in the military, what had happened to the infamous John Watson, the football captain, the lady's man, the player (in every sense of the word). Asking about the wounds, showing compassion...ugh.

First of all, I wasn't a player anymore. The army had certainly made sure to change that and second, thanks to the army once again, I wasn't able to perform the same way I used to in the field. I couldn't run through a football field just like that. Besides, I was almost 40 for Heaven's sake! I didn't know what Stamford meant by "play again from time to time", with his complexion and my limp, we were most likely to fail and get tired than to have fun and a productive day.

Apart from the war stories, I had nothing to say. I led a boring, repetitive life as a physician in a surgery, watching crap telly before bed and having nightmares about the war, haunting my slumber. Trying to not scream too loud, waking up to a bare room in a house that wasn't home... It was worse than war.

A sad, boring life. And yes, nothing ever happened to me.

Dinner time arrived and all the guests sat at the tables and all seats were filled with a person except for one, in front of mine.

I shot a wondering look at Greg, implying who was missing and Greg glanced down in embarrassment murmuring something along the lines of "on his way". Sometime later, as the second course was served, the doorbell rang and Greg ran towards the door as if he were to receive the Prime Minister or the Queen.

A slight hush fell in the room as the missing guest stepped inside, taking his coat and scarf off and glancing at the awestruck faces. Nobody had noticed he was the one missing. How could they? Back when we were at school he went unnoticed for most of them, crawling through the hallways with his lanky figure concealed by his oversized blazer and spending his free time in the library, science lab and under the bleachers being kicked by the rugby and football team, me leading the pack.

Now, he looked healthier, a rosy tone under the paleness in contrast to the sallow color he rocked in his teens, with the sharp cheekbones still protruding from his face. His hair wasn't sleeked back, but bouncing around his face in dark loose curls. He looked more confident. He strutted, head held high, clothes clinging for dear life to his body and a playful knowing smirk plastered on his face.

Sherlock Holmes, the former nerd, was now a killer beast. Suck it, ugly duckling.

Greg guided him towards the chair in front of me and Sherlock erased his smirk almost immediately. I tried smiling a bit, but the awkward grin that I managed to pull wasn't convincing enough. He glared at me and placed his napkin on his lap without uttering a word.

The whole meal was a pain. Greg was sitting between us and Mike across him, both of them trying to get us to speak,shooting little jokes at either of us, but nothing worked. Sherlock didn't speak or look at us and he barely ate at all. I was in a similar state, exchanging some questions and answers with the other two.

By the end of the reunion, everyone left rather quickly because of the downpour. I bid my goodbye to Greg and thanked him for the meal and the party and was heading towards my car when the sight of a tall figure stopped me.

Under the rain, with no protection but his trench coat, Sherlock was trying to hail a cab to no avail. I aproached him and guarded him with my umbrella.

"Hello" I said.

He scowled, walked away and tried hailing another cab.

"You know, they're not gonna stop. I have a car, so I could give you a lift..."

"No. Leave me alone."

"Come on! You're gonna catch a cold in here!" I replied.

He sighed, glared at me and guarded himself under the umbrella.

I put a towel on the passenger seat and he sat, sulking, his arms crossed and a pout on his lips.

I chuckled at the amusing sight and he growled in warning.

"Why do you even care?" He barked "It's been years and you shouldn't..."

"Sherlock, look. I've changed. You've changed...People change, they forget and move on! I know, I was an arsehole back then and I made your teens an unbearable age, but I'm sorry and I'm trying to make a change for good" I replied quickly at him. I started the car and asked: "Where to?"

"221B Baker St."

Well, it was quite the ride. A long distance to go, through London's traffic...it was nightmarish. Add to that a sulking Sherlock Holmes, to make matters worse.

"Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked after 20 minutes.

"What?"

"I remember you said that you wanted to enroll in the army, become a doctor...and your posture and the stiffness of your shoulders scream military, so...war it is. Either Afghanistan or Iraq."

I stuttered. "Um...Afghanistan..."

"And I bet that your therapist has told you that the limp is psychosomatic, quite right I must say, a simple but nagging PTSD reminder. Got shot?"

"Yeah. Shoulder and leg."

"Left"

"Lucky guess" I murmured.

"I never guess. Your left arm is stiffer than the right one and you're left handed for what I've seen" he shrugged while looking around the car "You also borrowed this car from a right handed person, probably your brother, who has either Parkinsons or the habit of heavy drinking which would make him unable to drive a car. Apparently it is hard to live easily in an army pension and the sad salary of a surgery doctor, so you turn to the closest option in a small family: brother."

I took a moment to let his rant sink in and I stopped at a red light. I turned to look at him and stuttered for a long time before resuming the driving in silence.

"Come on, say it." He encouraged me.

"Amazing" I blurted out.

"Pardon me?"

"Incredible! How'd you do that?" I chuckled trying to understand how he had known, but he seemed put off by my reaction.

"That's not what people usually say..."

"What do they say?"

"Piss off."

I laughed and he smirked a bit before turning stoic again.

"But, really, how'd you know?"

He took a big breath in and started explaining how little scratches on the console or a certain way in which I was standing led him to such a huge conclusion.

"Fascinating" I commented once again "I can't believe I missed this all those years" Sherlock stared at me and shrugged.

"Nevermind" he looked out the window and sighed "It's here"

"Must be nice living here."

"I have a good, expensive landlady. Even with the special deal she made for me."

"Special?"

"Yeah. Her husband was condemned to a hanging in Florida some years ago."

"Oh, you saved him."

"No, no, I ensured it."

I tapped the steering wheel as he shuffled to open the car door and I asked him before he left:

"Looking for the splits?"

"With you?" He asked. I nodded and he scoffed "You really must be desperate. Thankfully to you, I am, too. Here, tomorrow, 7pm. Don't be late."

And, with that, Sherlock slammed the door closed. What the hell was I getting into?


	2. The Man on The Other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Jawnlook in Tumblr: What if back when Sherlock was using drugs he always used to hallucinate this one really distinct man. Then a few years later he sees John on the street and it's the exact man he used to imagine?

He didn't even remember when he had started doing morphine, but the euphoria and relaxation was always welcomed like one would do with an old friend. Sherlock could even say it came with the face of an unknown old friend, too.

No one, not even the junkies, had ever told him about the possible side effects that drugs could have.

Being a depressant type of drug, the one he was taking, he highly doubted that it would cause him to hallucinate, but, every single time he hit his high and he felt on top of the world, The Man came along to bring him down and help him through the last of the high.

Oh, he was a lovely man. Well, say 'lovely'.

He was strange, mute and blank faced most of the time. Usually, when he appeared, he comforted Sherlock, soothing him into slumber and momentary peace. In other occasions, The Man would glare at him as if he had insulted his whole family until he fell, defeated, into unconsciousness.

How many times had Sherlock stopped drugging himself? How many times had he fought his demons? How much did he endured, just to see it all crumble under the utter need of seeing The Man? Of gazing into those ocean blue eyes?

The eyes that reminded him of his old desire of being a pirate and sailing the seven seas, finding treasure and adventure everywhere. Or that hair, a sandy blonde colour, that gave him a handsome look, slightly brushed to the side. Or that naturally tan skin, the built body, the fond condescendent smile...he _needed_ it. He needed The Man as if he was the drug.

_He was the drug._

Many years passed for Sherlock, switching between morphine and cocaine, seeing intermittent appearances of The Man, him getting angrier and angrier and blurrier and blurrier, every single time.

One day, Sherlock overdosed. He just...sort of, kinda did. He heard The Man's shout from afar, with a voice similar to Mycroft's but less controlled and more panicked. But Sherlock knew, oh, Sherlock knew he could just let go already. So he let go.  
  
  
  


Except he didn't. Mycroft was there. The Man wasn't. Everything was fake and Sherlock entered rehab because Mycroft's arse would be pleased if he got clean.

Two years later, he had gained weigh ( _too much, force fed, made him slow with thinking, but he was still sharp_ ), gotten new clothes ( _fit and a tad indecent, just like he liked them_ ) and he was back in society, 'clean' and ready to start again.

But he was not so clean, after all. Well, he technically was for about thirteen hours. Then he relapsed with something milder: nicotine. He used nicotine patches for thinking and cigarettes for when he needed a moment to relax. 

So, with his life "back on track", Mycroft contacted Sherlock with a D.I. at NSY, Graham Lestrade, if he was correct. He solved his first case in less than three minutes (two minutes and forty-eight seconds) and he started to be consulted by many D.I.s at a time. Life could be better.

 

 

He had just finished a case for Lestrade and he was tumbling back home, already bored out of his mind. He prayed and begged to God, or any entity that wanted to oblige, that a text with a case would pop up on his phone or something interesting happened now. NOW.

Sherlock didn't know if to feel blessed or cursed when his prayers were heard and a taxi stopped across the street. The blonde hair would be recognizable anywhere. The man wobbled towards a door and seemed to fumble around for his keys when Sherlock called out:

"Oi!"

He crossed the street eagerly, swerving between the cars, earning some honks and bruises. He stopped in front of the blonde man and smiled gingerly at his wide eyes. 

"Hi"

"Hello" answered Sherlock, while analizing the small-ish figure in front of him. _Just returned from war, unhappy, got shot - left shoulder, psycosomathic limp._

A prolongued pause proceeded. Those blue eyes, darkened by the night, stared at him the whole time and Sherlock couldn't believe it. He savoured the moment of complete awareness and lucidity and watched every feature of this man, The Man, _his_ Man...

"Um...I - should I know you?" asked the blonde man.

Sherlock took a sharp breath and snapped out of his dear Lalaland. He stuttered "I - I am so sorry..." he tried to think of something quick and spoke again "I thought you were someone else" _Lame, but it works._

"Ah, no problem, mate" the man shrugged "It sometimes happens"

The detective got rid of his glove and offered his hand "M' Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes".

"John...Watson. It's good to meet you, but I gotta go".

"Okay. See you, then".

"Goodbye".

John turned and left, limping away with his cane. Sherlock took off in the opposite direction thinking of the name of this mysterious man. _John Watson_. He needed to pay a small visit to his brother dear. For research purposes only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, Monday here (: I'm really sorry if the chapter wasn't very exciting as I meant it to be at first, but Hey! We have Stalker!lock in it!


	3. Bring milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock never buys milk.

Bring milk. SH

_I thought we had a full carton just this morning?_

We did. SH

But it was lost to science. SH

_Oh? Well it’s not my science so YOU get to buy the milk carton this time, okay?_

Fine. SH

 

John gawked at his phone and tried to understand how Sherlock Holmes, the greatest and only consulting detective in the world, his conceited git of a roommate, had accepted to buy milk for once.

He scoffed in surprise and shrugged before calling his next patient, the last one of the day.

Right in the middle of the appointment, his phone lit up with a soft ping but he turned it off with an apologetic look towards his patient.

Once he was out of work and walking towards the tube station, he read the text that had disturbed him and gawked once more.

 

**Is there an explanation to why Sherlock is asking me to buy milk? MH**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kinda short one, but I have been loaded lately. Also, inspiration has gone on holiday, so...


End file.
